On Holy Natatation
To Orpheus
Blas Falconer
It isn’t madness but shame for
wanting
and shame for not having what
I want,
which is a kind of
madness—drunk,
3 a.m., the stairwell too
steep to climb.
The bed can wait. I go to the
pool instead,
strip and step in, the smell
of smoke and sweat
washing from hair and skin.
The wet kiss:
his mouth pressed here, my
neck, and there,
my chest—in the end—went
nowhere.
Cars pass with coupled
strangers. I wade.
The brick wall stretches into
the sky,
the sky empty, save the
constellations,
whose lives I love—yours most
of all,
father of poets, whose lyre
filled trees
and stones with awe, the lover
torn to shreds
and thrown in to the river.
Tonight,
you’re the swan, lost among
pinholes of light,
your throat bitten by a black
hole
that takes and takes and never
fills. I kick,
stroke my tired arms to buoy
this body.
It makes ring after perfect
ring, but each one
breaks along the edge. You who
never were,
did you look down on the world
at last
and see that more won’t be
enough? Not now.
Not ever. Want picks the human
heart.
You’re the lie I won’t believe
forever.
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